


Standing on a Parapet

by MillieMay



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillieMay/pseuds/MillieMay
Summary: Jessica always thought it was Malcolm that she had to worry about.
Relationships: Hints of Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Standing on a Parapet

**Author's Note:**

> Had a breakdown. Wrote this. Bon appetite.

Jessica chokes on a breath as she slams the door behind her. She leans back against it, safely in her room once again. She stares up at the ceiling trying to blink away the tears and clear her vision again. All her clothes feel much too tight as she runs a hand over her chest trying to will the pain in it away. It works, but only momentarily.

She strips herself of the necklace that feels too heavy, and her rings that constrict her fingers and bump clumsily when she runs her hands through her hair. They clang and clack as she tosses them into the jewelry box on her vanity, not making eye contact with the mess that she is in the mirror. She clutches the wood resisting the urge to push it all over. That would surely gain more attention than she wanted right now.

She should call Gil.

She can’t.

She made sure of that.

She leans forward on her elbows rocking and pinching the bridge of her nose. She can’t cry. She can’t  _ fucking cry.  _ And she looks at herself. God help her, she looks like a god damn wreck. Her eyes are red rimmed, her straightened hair is loose, falling in tendrils around her face and she looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

She hasn’t. Not well.

Ainsley staying was a relief. Of course it was. She fills the home with dancing, twirling on the smooth floors in her socks, mimicking moves from when she used to ice skate. Her voice would light up the halls, singing (sometimes drunkenly) all of the hits from when she was a teen: Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls.

God, she never thought she’d be so happy to hear Complicated ever again.

But there were moments, god help her there were moments.

_ “No, you don’t understand Thomas.” Her words were spitting. “If we don’t get those passes ABC7 will get there first and it won’t be my head Jodie will be looking for.” _

She had been on the phone, probably talking to some poor partner or whatever they’re called. Jessica had been bringing her tea. The tone, her words. Jessica felt like she was walking back twenty years. All down to the way she hung up, fire in her eyes until she found her mother standing there. How immediately they went soft.

Jessica almost broke right there.

The drawer slides open noisily and she whips out the bottle inside. It was the strongest bourbon she had. Saved for her wedding anniversary, Martin’s birthday, and the day Eve died. She popped the tab drinking straight from the bottle, pretending the burn would take the memories with it. Her eyes fall on the bottom of the drawer. A piece of cardstock staring back up at her.

She collapses in the chair grabbing the picture.

The photo had been supposed to go with the rest. That Christmas had something special about it, she couldn’t remember what. But Malcolm had bounced on top of her, excited chanting with Ainsley in quick tow on Martin’s side. Her son had torn open the wrapping paper so excitedly. His eyes lit up with the advanced medical texts.

_ “Now these are technically for college students but I think you can handle them.”  _ Martin had said with a wink. Ainsley opened a litter of dresses and a microphone that she sang into for hours on end. She squealed with delight at every single thing she found beautiful.  _ “She’s just like you.”  _ He whispered in her ear.

God, was he wrong.

They had posed for a picture by the tree. Ainsley and Malcolm wearing matching sets of pajamas and their smiles brighter than she remembers them ever being.

It was their last happy memory.

Now it is singed, the photo had been dumped with the others into the billowing flames. But it just landed closest to her. Martin’s face now a burned hole, and the rest of them blissfully untouched. She had stupidly reached into the flames, plucking it out and stamping out the sides that were beginning to catch. Her finger tips were burnt, she told Gil when he inspected her bandaged hand that she was making Ainsley lunch.

He didn’t believe her.

The burn isn’t nearly enough anymore. Her tears flow freely and she sits back, cursing her own reflection. She’d spent so long telling Malcolm he wasn’t his father. Saving him from that trauma, from the words that he flinched with when teachers, reporters, hell his own father tried to ingrain in him.

He looked so much lighter when he finally changed his name.

How could she compare Ainsley to him.

What kind of mother is she?

The thought makes her shut her eyes tightly. Her cheeks on fire from the alcohol and her holding her breath trying to suppress the loud sobs that desperately want out. Ainsley isn’t far, she reminds herself. She could hear it if she was quiet enough. So she hiccups, rage and guilt flowing constrained through her veins.

There were always whispers about how she was broken. Looking at the woman in the mirror it feels like shattered is a more appropriate word. Like a doll that had been dropped so many times that there are pieces missing, a glance into the hollow bones that lie inside. Ones she fills with anything that will keep her busy.

Ainsley stopped singing as much since she went back to work. Even when she does the words are haunting, an omen. More than once she caught her singing a lullaby that Jessica doesn’t recognize. It’s absentminded, like she doesn’t know the song, only the words spilling from her subconscious as she wanders the halls.

They feel like a threat.

She should call Gil, he would know what to do.

Her fingers linger on the speed dial. Gil would comfort her. There would be a disapproving look when he saw her choice of drink but he would stay. His heart would be a beat that gives her comfort.

She can’t.

But she needs to know. Her fingers dial the number automatically.

_ “Claremont Psychiatric, this is Henry, how can I help?” _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y’all enjoyed that!! I want to be explicitly clear this is not a fic for shipping Jessica with Martin. She’s seeking out answers rather than addressing her own emotions, which is something I firmly believed she would do in canon. Meanwhile if she called Gil she would have to be admitting that something is wrong.
> 
> BUT story and beginning joke aside, I am doing better than when I wrote this. I’ve been hella overwhelmed bc I am about to move again and it’s harder than it’s ever been and super fucking sad if I’m being honest. But I’m working through the emotions with friends. Just had to write this to make myself feel a little less heavy. Didn’t work, but I got some of that bad energy out.


End file.
